


Little Instances

by Of_Nyon



Series: Gift fics! [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Acquaintances to Friends to Lovers, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assumptions, Canon-Typical Violence, Jumping to Conclusions, M/M, Out of Order, Pining, Recovery, Self-Indulgent, Slow Burn, crack ship, im suffering pls ship this with me, more TBA - Freeform, sorta?, world building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-03-30 23:16:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19037530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Of_Nyon/pseuds/Of_Nyon
Summary: Every single instance where Rodimus and Cyclonus’s paths crossed. Every single outcome of their actions. Every single new experience.Alternatively: I fell for an extremely bizarre rare pair and I needed to create something for it. I make the rules now, and I’m so mushy





	1. Lost and Found

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CanonAnon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanonAnon/gifts).



> This is un-beta’d, so pls excuse any spelling/ grammar mistakes 0”:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not sure where this will go, if it’ll actually have an overarching storyline, but expect these two to kiss at one point. Hehe

He didn’t expect to be picked up. In fact, he didn’t expect to have survived at all.

The shot to his chest completely scorched the paint his decal was made of. He could feel it. Great, something else to fix.

 _That’s kinda ironic,_ he thought. _The flames on my chest… burnt off. Heh._

He heard a huff somewhere above him, and suddenly he realized how much quieter his surroundings were than before. The constant gunshots and yelling of commands was gone. There wasn’t any sound of seekers above him dropping bombs, or his own squad transforming and racing to their base.

Whatever surface he was on _definitely_ did not feel like the ground he’d found himself on after the shot. His back and spoiler were sore, and he definitely needed to clean the finer crevices within his plating, but… he was on a flat surface.

A flat surface that was propping his helm up.

It finally dawned on him that his optics had been turned off this entire time. Slowly, he rebooted the rest of his systems, and light filled his vision.

Everything was white. Or… a very light color. His brain module was still prioritizing his primary functions to care about color. There was a ceiling above him, and it looked stable enough. Whatever propped his helm up allowed him to see the walls, which were just as exciting as the ceiling. There wasn’t anything remarkable or memorable about what he could see. This entire room, from his peripheral vision, was empty besides for him and… whatever was behind him.

He could see his pedes and servos, and they _definitely_ needed some repairs. He tested out his dexterity, and he could just about wiggle his digits and ankles. That wouldn’t do, but whatever. He still needed to figure out where he was.

He couldn’t be at their base. The medibay felt smaller only because it contained so many berths and materials. He doubted he was in any of the other rooms since most of them had boxes of supplies as well. He _really_ hoped they hadn’t shoved him into one of the interrogation rooms because of the lack of space. That would suck.

He also doubted he’d been captured by the Decepticons. They probably would’ve thrown him into an actual cell without caring for any of his wounds. Plus, someone should’ve come in to check up on him already… right? If they wanted information—which he wouldn’t give anyway—they’d probably torture him for it, right?

This felt weird.

“You’re awake.”

The sudden boom of a voice directly above his head startled him, his shoulders tensing. He craned his neck back, looking for the source, when he spotted red optics and a purple paint job.

_Huh. So color is back._

It took him longer to recognize who it was than he wanted to admit, but his shoulders relaxed when he did.

“Cyclonus.”

The mech simply huffed, content that he’d been recognized.

“I regret to inform you that you’re in critical condition, Hot Rod,” Cyclonus responded, not hiding the grave tone in his voice. “You’ve barely survived because I closed the blaster shot on your chest and fed you some energon.”

That came as a surprise. Hot Rod never knew Cyclonus as one to be so… _generous._ It weirded him out.

“Uh… thank you,” was all he managed to say without immediately questioning his motives.

“Is anyone looking for you?” Cyclonus asked, his expression remaining the same.

As if on cue, Hot Rod’s comm system booted up, and already he had various incoming messages. Too many messages. Overwhelmed, he muted them all, glad that he at least wasn’t forgotten. He leaned his helm into whatever propped him up and closed his optics, venting deeply.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Looks like my squad is still on the planet.” He paused his train of thought, realizing he might not have even _been_ on the same planet anymore. He _had_ been unconscious for… some time now.  

Apparently, Cyclonus read the worry in his face because he said, “I moved you from the battlefield to an abandoned town miles away from the main fight. I will take you to a rendezvous for your squad to pick you up.”

The spike of worry drained out of Hot Rod’s system, and he suddenly felt heavy. And foggy. “I dunno if I can walk right now,” he slurred, struggling to open his optics and _keeping_ them open.

“That doesn’t matter. As long as you can forward me any coordinates, you’ll be resting properly the next time you wake up.”

Maybe it was the lack of necessary fuel speaking, or maybe it was his exhaustion projecting what he wanted, or even his paranoia finally settling in, but listening to Cyclonus speak was somehow… soothing. He didn’t mind staying like this for a little longer, not having to care about a ridiculously long war.

Hot Rod forced himself to skim through the messages he’d received, hoping one contained coordinates. _Any_ coordinates. He knew his squad would worry, and he didn’t want any higher command to come for him. That would be embarrassing. 

Ah, there’s a batch.

“Here,” Hot Rod said, opening his frequency up for Cyclonus. He hadn’t exactly noticed when it’d become dark, but he wasn’t complaining. At least now the room didn’t feel like a surgical room.

“Rest,” Cyclonus said, though it sounded like a command. “You’ll need it.”

“Okay.”

Hot Rod didn’t fight unconsciousness, feeling his heavy frame slip onto a comfortable blanket of calm he hadn’t felt in while.

_This was a nice break._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think about these two >>


	2. Recovering Just Fine

“…tals are good. He’ll be f…”

“…awake for any longer?…”

“…saved him? Did he…”

“…ppened to him? Wow…”

Voices surrounded him, and it was uncomfortable. More than anything, falling in and out of recharge and only hearing bits of conversations were throwing him off. He was tired. He didn’t want to think.

It wasn’t long before he could stay awake for an actual cycle. Or… maybe it took longer. He didn’t know. He couldn’t care.

His surroundings were different this time. More familiar. This was definitely the medibay. If he thought the crumbling room from that one planet had been white, then this room must’ve been a different color altogether. It was blindingly bright, and he struggled to adjust to the light.

The machines were the first things he heard. The periodic beeping was reassuring, but… incredibly annoying. _Great,_ he thought. _I’m on a life support system. I’m gonna be sore after I get up._

The next thing he noticed was the thin fabric draped over his frame. When had they gotten organic fabrics? And big enough to cover him entirely? He wasn’t complaining though, it was comfortable and it made him want to stay still for once.

Which reminded him… he couldn’t see his servos, but he wiggled his digits to test them out. He could move every single one individually, and he tried his wrist next. It felt stiff, but it was more movement then before. _Tiny steps…_

He finally let himself scan the rest of the medibay. There were others occupying the berths, but none looked as bad as he _felt._ Either he had seen the worst of the fight, or they’d gotten fixed first since he was gone for a while. Either way, he felt self-conscious.

“You’re awake.”

They were the same words, but from a different voice this time. That disappointed him, and it surprised him that it did. He turned his helm to the side, and did his best to smile.

“Morning, Ratchet,” he mumbled, his voice full of static. That was uncomfortable, but he’d have to get used to it being at the medibay. “How long was I out?”

“A while,” Ratchet replied, not even looking at the mech. He skimmed over something on his datapad before putting it down and facing Hot Rod. “How are you feeling?”

“Like slag, but I’ll manage.” Hot Rod shifted in his berth, getting a general idea of what had been fixed from how sore he felt. “How’s my chest decal?”

“Completely gone,” Ratchet said, rolling his optics at Hot Rod’s priorities. “You’ll need a new paint job.”

“Damn.” Hot Rod wished he could see just how bad it was, but something told him it was better to… not. He looked back up at Ratchet. “What’s the verdict?”

Ratchet turned to examine the rest of the medibay. “Everyone who was in critical condition is stable, including you. All of our injured are recovering quick, so that’s good.”

“Good,” Hot Rod said, smiling. He didn’t want to ask how many _didn’t_ come back. He knew he was almost one of them.

Ratchet didn’t bring it up either.

The check up went smoothly, albeit awkwardly. Hot Rod’s joints still needed loosening, but everything was working. Everything was in order and booted up, even upgraded in some places. He almost felt like a new bot.

Almost.

“And Cyclonus?” Hot Rod asked after he was allowed to sit up. He didn’t expect the mech to be in the medibay considering he hadn’t looked all that injured. Then again, Hot Rod was becoming delusional in his lack of energon and fatigue.

Ratchet paused whatever he was typing in his datapad to look up. “Cyclonus?”

That didn’t sound right. “Yeah? Cyclonus.”

Ratchet looked just as confused as Hot Rod. “What about him?”

“How is he?”

“Why are you asking?”

“He sort of brought me to you guys? Please tell me you didn’t lock him up.”

“Hot Rod,” Ratchet started, looking directly at the mech with a serious expression that unnerved the other. “We _found_ you. Alone. Ironhide got a scrambled message to come to some specific coordinates and you were the only mech there. We thought that was you?”

That didn’t add up at all.

Hot Rod furrowed his eyebrows. “No? I passed out in the battlefield after I got shot in the chest, and I woke up with Cyclonus. He patched me up pretty roughly apparently, and he gave me some energon too. I couldn’t stay awake, so I gave him some coordinates that _you guys_ sent to _me,_ and then I woke up here.”

Ratchet took in all the new information and processed. “That’s odd… we received coordinates from a scrambled frequency and we found you.” Suddenly, his face went deadpan and he looked at Hot Rod. “What coordinates did you send to Cyclonus?”

Hot Rod scrambled to open his comms, finding Cyclonus’s frequency at the very top. “The coordinates I sent were…”

…Ironhide’s frequency?

“Huh?”


	3. Found the Lost

Cyclonus boarded his own spacecraft and observed all the lights turn on one by one.

It was a… bizarre day, to say the least. He’d made it to Capus F-02 long before the Autobots and Decepticons had rolled in with their fighting. He’d been  _ shopping,  _ something he didn’t realize he’d missed since the war started. It made him feel… normal. 

The first missile had completely missed the market he’d been at, but that was enough warning for everyone else to evacuate back to their ships. The next couple shots managed to avoid hurting anyone directly, but, from where Cyclonus had taken refuge, he could see some ships exploding and giving out under the weight of the projectiles. 

He felt lucky when he found his own ship generally scratched up and burned but otherwise in one piece. He didn’t want to buy a new ship, it would be a waste of shanix if he had to. 

When he had boarded his ship, and walked towards the brig and readied himself to leave the planet, he detected a distress signal. It was small, weak even, and low-distance. He considered not going out to check, but the overwhelming deaths caused by the war already changed his mind. If he could save a life right now, maybe he could help Cybertron’s future by keeping some of their old populace. 

He left his ship, transformed, and flew just high enough to still differentiate any mechs he saw. 

And he recognized so many dead frames. He couldn’t remember all of their names, and he felt guilty for forgetting them that way, but he  _ knew _ some of them. He’d  _ worked _ with them before. He didn’t care what faction they’d picked. In the end, they died for a war that was going on for too long and had lost its original purpose. It upset Cyclonus greatly to have seen these mechs throw away their lives for this war. They deserved a better life. They should’ve  _ left _ Cybertron  _ with _ him. 

He picked up the distress signal again, this time stronger, closer. He kept his senses open and ready, hoping he wouldn’t get ambushed. He was easily mistaken for being a part of a  _ certain faction,  _ and it was annoying. 

That’s when he spotted that rust red paint job. And that tacky flame decal, sporting a red insignia smack in the middle of the flame. 

Cyclonus could feel his spark drop. He remembered Hot Rod. How could he forget? 

He landed without a second thought, next to the rubble that covered that frame. He just hoped he wasn’t too late. 


	4. Stranded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last chapter was pretty short, so i wanted to make it up by making this one longer :"D this is from a different time now. past or future, u decide ;)

A new planet. A new adventure. Cyclonus had stopped wondering how his planet had been doing a long time ago. His ship was his new home. For now.

He landed on a new planet—Elmiri R-O if he remembered correctly—and admired his surroundings.

This planet was organic. Fields of brightly colored trees spanned as far as he could see. Small bodies of liquid were everywhere, and, if he stayed still enough, he could hear the wildlife chirping and moving about. It was… peaceful. 

Cyclonus wasn’t here to sightsee, though. This market, albeit small, had found raw energon, and he longed for a fresh cube after far too many cycles without any. Alternatives were good in a bind, but his frame was burning through the new fuel faster than he liked. He’d have to start  _ looking _ for energon if he wanted to stay sustained, or risk falling into stasis very soon. 

It didn’t take long to get to the market. Being physically bigger than the plant life here helped him spot the market from above the trees. He just hoped his size wouldn’t frighten anyone. It wouldn’t be very productive if no one would let him buy anything.

He was incredibly surprised when all he got were glances and annoyed huffs when he cut someone off their path. He  _ definitely _ wasn’t complaining. If only more markets were this tolerant.

He took his time looking through the market, not exactly being in a rush to find that energon. As far as he knew, he was the only Cybertronian looking for energon in this part of the universe. 

He overheard the natives talking about another mech, and he wondered who it was. He didn’t expect to know them; he’d come across various other races of mecha on his little adventures. It would be nice to have someone else like him around, but he wasn’t going to test his luck. 

Along the way, he bought spare parts that he could use for his ship, picking up bits and pieces of this mysterious mech the organics kept talking about. That mech seemed to be lively, charismatic even, and liked to talk. Apparently, they talked  _ a lot _ . The organics were frustrated and annoyed, and that made Cyclonus huff in amusement. They also seemed to blend pretty well in the environment considering how saturated and diverse just the trees surrounding the market were. 

Before long, Cyclonus’s close-range scanners picked up the raw energon, and he finished his last transaction to walk towards a stand farther away than the others. He could already see this one was bigger, accommodating for mechs closer to his size than the rest of the organics around him. The closer he got, the more he could see just what these organics were selling.

On top of the stand were… was that an intake? And a brain module? Cyclonus did  _ not _ want to know how these people had found—or scavenged—all of these  _ spare parts.  _ It should have creeped him out, but the need for proper fuel outweighed his disgust, and he allowed himself to forget for just a klik. 

He studied the organics, who were just below his chassis if he stood his full height. They were tall, and all the same color as his own paint job. He found that odd, but he didn’t make any remarks aloud. 

“I’ve come for the energon,” he said, not wasting any time. There was no point in beating around the bush. “How much?”

The organics looked him over as if searching for something. He almost rolled his optics when he realized they were looking for a faction. “I don’t associate with the war,” he added. “I only want fuel.”

The organics nodded, and grabbed something from within their stand. They pulled out a metal case and unlocked it, revealing the raw pink energon crystal within. It was much bigger than Cyclonus had anticipated, but he definitely wasn’t complaining. 

Out of nowhere, his comms beeped. He’d forgotten that he even  _ had _ internal comms; he never bothered to use them when he was alone in space. He didn’t recognize the frequency, but it’d been  _ centuries _ since he used his comm. He didn’t recognize  _ anyone’s  _ frequency anymore. He opened it out if curiosity. 

_ ::cyclonus? is that u?:: _

He furrowed his eyebrows. Who was this? How’d they get his frequency  _ and _ his name? He didn’t hesitate writing back a message.

_ ::Who are you?:: _

_ ::turn around!!!:: _

He did just that, and sure enough, there stood the mystery mech Cyclonus had heard the organics talking about. Tall, like him, and rust red. And that God awful flame decal was somehow more obnoxious than before. 

_ ::i tried buying that energon earlier, but they don’t like us in the war:: _

Cyclonus huffed.  _ ::I don’t like those in the war either.:: _ He didn’t mean to sound so condescending. He didn’t exactly care that he did. 

Hot Rod only smiled sheepishly, then pointed past Cyclonus.  _ ::i think they wanna talk to u:: _

Cyclonus turned back, and the organics had finished converting their currency into shanix. As Cyclonus expected, it was expensive as the pits, but he had enough shanix to not worry. For now, at least. 

He paid without a second thought, took the metal case, and started heading back to his ship.

_ ::hey! where are u going?:: _

Right. Hot Rod. Cyclonus opened up his frequency. 

_ ::I can’t exactly eat the energon the way that it is. I have a refiner in my ship.:: _

_ ::what about me??:: _

_ ::You’re welcome to come along.:: _

The other mech didn’t respond, and Cyclonus didn’t bother looking back. He wasn’t sure what possessed him to say that, but in the end he didn’t mind. Company was still company, and by the Gods he knew he needed it. Time for the self was great until it spanned centuries and he started to feel lonely. It was worse than feeling alone.

He made it back without any other interruptions. When he went to board his ship, he saw that same rust red paint job standing a ways from where he was. 

_ ::are u sure i can come?::  _ Hot Rod asked, shifting his weight from either ped. Cyclonus huffed.

_ ::Do as you wish. I don’t see the point in being aggressive to you.:: _

Hot Rod took a moment, then jogged towards Cyclonus, who didn’t pay any more attention to the younger mech. The shuttle door opened on command, and the ramp extended. He boarded the ship without a thought, though he paid attention to Hot Rod’s quiet steps. 

The ship itself was small, comfortable even, and had everything Cyclonus needed. A recharge slab, that refiner he mentioned, a path to the one-person brig, and… that was it. 

“Do you live on this ship?” Cyclonus heard Hot Rod ask. He huffed and nodded. He didn’t really feel like having a conversation about the  _ way _ he lived.

He walked over to the refiner and opened the lid, being careful as he opened the case and placed the energon crystal inside. It would take a while for the refiner to do its job as it hadn’t been used in a while, and the crystal itself was bigger than the refiner was intended for. Cyclonus could wait.

“Where have you gone?” Hot Rod asked again, this time in a quieter voice. Cyclonus turned to look at him, seeing him near a pile of old plating Cyclonus had replaced. It was dirty, coated in dried energon and wounds of various sources. 

“What do you mean?”

“…Have you encountered… any of us?” Hot Rod didn’t look up. “From the war?”

Cyclonus furrowed his eyebrows. “It’s extremely difficult to avoid the ongoing battles when they move from planet to planet. I can’t exactly  _ predict _ when the next major fight between Megatron and Prime will be.”

Hot Rod vented through his nose and looked back up at Cyclonus. His expression was unreadable. “That’s true.”

“What exactly were you doing on this planet?” Cyclonus asked this time, and Hot Rod turned to look at him fully.

“Well I wanted to buy that energon,” Hot Rod responded, pointed at the refiner. “Turns out organics don’t exactly like most Cybertronians.”

“For good reason,” Cyclonus interjected. Hot Rod pretended to ignore him.

“I’ve also uh…” Hot Rod sheepishly rubbed the back of his helm. “…kinda got stranded on here. And I broke my long-range comms trying to make them space-range.”

Cyclonus thought hard on that. “Is anyone looking for you?”

Hot Rod didn’t answer.


	5. First Conversations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok I finished this chapter and decided to reorder these two new chapters bc I was mad at myself for going out of my PLANNED order FKDKDJ

Cyclonus missed Cybertron. He mourned for everything he watched crumble before his optics, and for everyone he remembered working with. He mourned for the lives that didn’t deserve to be taken so early, and for the lives that would never know anything but war. 

Cyclonus, however, couldn’t mourn in peace. Not anymore. 

“Where’d you get this ship? It’s pretty small.”

“Where are you headed now? Another market? Another planet? Another  _ galaxy?” _

“Why did you stay neutral?”

“What do you do when you encounter any of our battles?”

“What have you been doing since the exodus?”

“How come you have so little stuff? Do you Tetrahexians not believe in  _ things, _ or… is it part of your religion and did I just offend you? Oh Gods, I am so sorry-”

“Enough!” Cyclonus snapped, baring his fangs at the younger mech. “You never learned to shut up, did you?”

Hot Rod took a step back, raising his servos up defensively. He didn’t say anything anymore. 

Cyclonus mourned quietly. When he was alone—or at least  _ thought _ he was alone—he recited the prayers he still remembered in Old Cybertronian. If he wasn’t going to participate in the war, that was the least he could do.

Hot Rod found him cross-legged on top of the recharge slab, optics closed and gently humming a tune. It had been a lullaby Cyclonus could barely remember. Hot Rod didn’t ask what it was. 

He came back later when Cyclonus wasn’t busy… humming to himself. He brought a cube from the refiner, the first cube Cyclonus would have in a long time. 

Hot Rod cleared his throat to get the other mech’s attention. He already had it to begin with. Maybe it was a nervous tick. “I, uh, brought you some energon.”

Cyclonus looked up at him, unintentionally sizing him up. He watched the mech shift his weight and slowly twirl the cube in his servos. Cyclonus huffed, and reached for the cube. 

“Thank you,” he said, his voice gruff but even. Hot Rod nodded, quickly and carefully handling the cube to him. 

They didn’t talk much after that. Sometimes Cyclonus would catch Hot Rod writing something in an empty data pad he’d stolen, only to erase everything and hang his head in frustration. Other times, he would be pacing back and forth, his spoiler twitching high in the air in unease and restlessness. Most of the time, he sat in the brig when it was on autopilot, watching the stars and galaxies zoom past them and trying to chart which quadrant they were in. 

Cyclonus could tell very clearly that this wasn’t a good environment for the younger mech. He was energetic, curious, and adventurous. He needed to move, and this ship wasn’t enough for that. There wasn’t anywhere for him to go. He was essentially trapped, and Cyclonus almost pitied the mech. 

Maybe entertaining him for a little would distract him. It could certainly be  _ social practice _ for Cyclonus. 

“Hot Rod,” Cyclonus called out, catching said mech off guard. He jumped in surprise and spun around, smiling sheepishly.

“Yeah?”

“You once asked me why I stayed neutral.”

“Oh.” His spoiler dropped in embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to offend you, I know I talk too much and I never shut up-”

“I wanted to talk about it,” Cyclonus smoothly cut him off, and Hot Rod paused.

“Really?”

“Yes. It’s a valid question considering you chose a faction early on.”

Hot Rod looked down at his pedes. “Yeah… I guess so.”

Cyclonus got comfortable on the recharge slab, leaving a ped dangling off an edge. “I understand the war is important to both factions. If I may, why did you choose to side with the Autobots and not the Decepticons?”

Hot Rod’s shoulders and spoiler slumped. He sighed and sat down on the edge of the slab, keeping his distance from Cyclonus. “Even though what the Decepticons believed in would’ve benefited people like me, they didn’t help us out.” He turned away and twiddled his thumbs. ”Not when Zeta tried to use us, not when my city went up in flames. They only tried to use our anger as a means to recruit us. For their  _ war.” _

Cyclonus listened tentatively, taking in everything Hot Rod had to say. He heard about what had happened to Nyon, but he didn’t want to ask the younger mech about it. Not yet.

“I wasn’t too keen on the Senate’s functionism,” Cyclonus respondes, crossing his arms. “My alt mode isn’t exactly real-estate material, but the Senate needed more mechs in that job when I was forged. It was a compromise, and they made it work. It didn’t mean I  _ liked _ the way they handled everyone else’s careers.”

Hot Rod furrowed his eyebrows as he listened, but didn’t say anything. “When Tetrahex heard of Megatron and his writing, most were comfortable with their lives. This was the first time we’d heard of the more extreme versions of functionism, and the way it impacted those lower in the hierarchy.”

“I’m sorry,” Hot Rod said. “But where are you going with this?”

Cyclonus huffed, annoyed but not irritated. “We had also heard of Megatron’s methods, and what he was planning. In our eyes, he wanted total power over the government in order to control the entire planet. It would become an abuse of power, much like how the previous Primes had become. While…  _ I  _ agreed with his arguments, I couldn’t fight and unconditionally defend his actions.”

Hot Rod hadn't maintained eye-contact, but his spoiler twitched as he processed all this information. Subconsciously, he raised a servo and rested it on top of his insignia. 

“So then… why didn’t you become an Autobot?”

Cyclonus clenched his servo into a fist. “I cannot easily disconnect the connection between the Autobots and Sentinel Prime’s Autobots. I recognize they are different groups, but Optimus  _ still _ took the name and symbol. I cannot overlook that. Not like you may have.”

The younger mech nodded understandingly. 

Cyclonus looked away, distantly. “It’s a shame the Autobots have become a faction of war when they used to be divine. It represented the allegiance of the Thirteen Primes, and it was meant to unify mechs.

“Now…” Cyclonus sighed. “…it's all war.”


	6. Traveling and Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now in the correct order ;)

Nyon looked nothing like Upper Tetrahex, Cyclonus noted. He hadn’t expected Zeta Prime’s words to be so… literal.

He couldn’t even see the _sky._ The clouds above casted a red shadow everywhere, and it was alarming when he couldn’t differentiate metal and _rusted_ metal. He walked down the streets littered with trash and bodies, and kept his guard up. He couldn’t help it, not with the way the homeless mechs looked at him. He hoped his pace didn’t allow the hungrier mechs to _really_ have a look at him.

Zeta Prime had said this city was full of rust, that it’s citizens were striving to overthrow the government in order to establish anarchy. Or something along those lines. Most of the citizens Cyclonus had seen were dead or dying. Very quickly he was starting to question exactly what Zeta Prime was saying to the rest of the planet.

He had been headed towards the Acropolex, having heard of its old spiritual elements and wanting to see it for himself. He should have expected the building to be in ruins just like the rest of the city.

Cyclonus stood a ways from the crumbling stairs, admiring the remaining architecture of the building. He could only imagine how breathtaking it must have been during its prime, populated and visited and taken care of just like the religious landmarks in Upper Tetrahex. He would go in, but something told him it might be too unstable to risk. Maybe that’s why no one was actually here.

Until he heard the light steps behind him.

Cyclonus turned around, keeping his guard up but making sure his stance wasn’t provoking. He didn’t immediately see anyone, the horrid weather blending the rust-covered metal with any rubble and bodies surrounding him.

“Hello?” He called out, hoping he wouldn't have to fight anyone. He really didn’t want to, not in this area at least.

“You’re that real estate guy,” a voice responded, and Cyclonus furrowed his eyebrows. He didn’t think his popularity had reached outside of Tetrahex, but he should have guessed it would happen eventually.

“Then you must know my name,” he replied, still searching for the source of the voice. “Who are you?”

There was a moment of stillness before a bulky frame moved away from the corner of a fallen building. He couldn’t tell if their paint job was red or they were simply covered in rust. Except for that _tacky_ flame decal. It was scraping off, but it was still there.

“I live here,” the mech said, avoiding Cyclonus’s question. “What are _you_ doing here?”

Cyclonus huffed, not entirely liking his question being ignored. He looked past it for now. “I came to visit the Acropolex. I’ve heard many things about it back in Tetrahex.”

The mech snorted. “It’s been in ruins for eons now.”

“I know. That didn’t change my mind.”

The mech hummed. “Are you religious?”

Cyclonus squinted his optics. He couldn’t make a judgement if he gave the mech the wrong answer. He didn’t see a reason to lie, though. “I am, yes.”

The mech stayed silent, opting to look at the Acropolex. They sighed and looked back at Cyclonus. “I can show you the inside. You won’t like what’s there.”

That intrigued Cyclonus. “Why not?”

“How do you feel about what Zeta Prime’s been saying to the rest of the planet about Nyon?”

“I’m starting to think he’s not entirely truthful.”

“Then come with me.” The mech started walking, not waiting for Cyclonus. “You’ll see what I mean.”

Cyclonus watch the mech’s back for a moment, wondering what exactly they felt the need to show him. Regardless, he was curious, and he wanted to see the inside of the building anyway. He considered this as some sort of tour. When they were in front of him, Cyclonus picked up his pace and walked just behind the mech.

The way they walked through the ruins really told Cyclonus they visited this place more often than not. They avoided risky debris almost gracefully, never once slowing down. He _really_ had to study the mech’s movements in order to do the same. He didn’t want to accidentally cause the entire roof to collapse because he wasn’t careful.

Once they were clear, the space suddenly felt empty. The ceiling extended far above his head, too far to actually see where it ended. It was dark, and unclean, and rust-ridden, and generally unpleasant to be in. It made Cyclonus all the more curious, wanting to find out _why_ such a giant monument had been turned to near dust.

The mech led him down certain corridors, sometimes turning sharp corners that Cyclonus had to quicken his pace as to not lose them in the dark. This mech was bizarre, but Cyclonus couldn’t question it too much. They _did_ live in a neglected torus-city, something he couldn’t exactly judge.

A faint pink light emanated from just down the hall, and Cyclonus had only just noticed how cold these ruins felt.

“Over there,” the mech in front of him suddenly said, pointing a digit towards the light. “Is something Zeta Prime has been trying to hide from the rest of the planet.”

They beckoned Cyclonus to walk in front of them, and he did hesitantly. The light came from the only functioning door that Cyclonus had seen in this place. That was _extremely_ out of place, and it unnerved him. He opened it with a struggle, and the view left him agape.

Giant tanks of energon stood tall and rich, and they glowed a pink so vibrant and full of life this entire city lacked. The tanks were sealed shut, and Cyclonus couldn’t see any way of opening them without spilling its contents. Empty, gray frames littered the ground, most leaning against the walls, others lifelessly clinging onto the tanks themselves.

The implications were disturbing, and Cyclonus found himself trembling in… anger? Disgust? Grief? He couldn’t quite distinguish exactly what he felt, but it had been the intended reaction the other mech wanted.

“Zeta Prime won’t feed us,” they said, clenching their servos into fists. “He thinks we’ll go against his rule, and the best way to keep us complacent is to take away all our resources in order to pit us against each other.”

“Do the dirty work _for_ him,” Cyclonus concluded, and regained his bearings. “This is… unacceptable.”

The mech looked at Cyclonus quietly, unreadable and still. Something raced in their mind, Cyclonus could almost tell. Their shoulders slumped, and Cyclonus noticed their spoiler droop ever so slightly.

“Let’s get out of here,” they said, already turning around. “I can’t stand being in here and not being able to do _anything_ about it.” Cyclonus nodded and closely followed the mech, not entirely remembering the way back.

He couldn’t believe what he’d seen, but it made sense. The way Zeta Prime spoke about Nyon was all just a cover up for his own crimes. It was _disgusting._

“You never told me your designation,” Cyclonus said once they’d reached the unsteady debris. “And you already know mine.”

The mech looked him up and down, as if studying him for the first time. Their expression didn’t change, but something within them felt so… sad. So hopeless.

“My name is Hot Rod.”


	7. Hostage to None

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was a fun chapter to write haha
> 
> Also I have no idea how to write Ironhide’s accent FKDJDJF or him. I’m trying

“Are you _serious?_ Why did you _shoot_ him?”

“He was holding you _hostage!_ We had to get you out of there!”

“Were you even _listening_ to me? He picked me up _because_ no one else did!”

“You should’ve just stayed on Elmiri R-O so we could’ve picked you up!”

“I couldn’t wait! I’d been there for _too long,_ and you know how restless I get. He was already there and I didn’t _want_ to wait! I didn’t even _know_ if you guys were coming back for me!”

Hot Rod clenched and unclenched his servos, doing his best to stay calm. “And stop trying to look me over! He didn’t hurt me!” At least, stay calm enough to argue and keep _yelling_ without actually escalating things.

“Let me see him,” he demanded, standing his ground and keeping his eye contact sharp and unmoving. Ironhide looked down at the mech with that same expression of pity that pissed him off. He was fine! No one was listening to him and it was driving him mad!

“Kid,” Ironhide started, placing a servo on his hip plate and using the other to massage the bridge of his nose. That made Hot Rod roll his optics. “He’s a _Decepticon-”_

 _“No_ , he isn’t,” the younger mech quickly interrupted. Ironhide raised an eyebrow.

“How do you know that for sure?”

Hot Rod opened his mouth to retort, but nothing came out. Ironhide was right, there wasn’t any way for any of them to trust Cyclonus’s word. He didn’t know the mech like he knew Ratchet, and Ironhide, and Bumblebee, and the others. He also… _looked_ like a Decepticon. That was pretty bad already.

Hot Rod slumped. “Just let me see him, ‘Hide.” His voice was low and small, and Ironhide dropped his aggressive stance. “He saved my life, you know.”

Ironhide pursed his lips tightly, studying Hot Rod’s body language before clicking his glossa. Not like he knew how to read spoilers or wings, but Hot Rod had made sure to be sincere, and Ironhide was good at picking that up. “Only if I can come along.”

“Oh, absolutely _not,”_ Hot Rod said, shaking his head vigorously. “He is not gonna wanna see you after you _shot him._ What kind of an _idiot_ are you?”

“Alright, I get it,” Ironhide grumbled. “He’s detained, so he’s safe anyway.”

Hot Rod rolled his optics again. _“Please._ He didn’t need to be after you _injured_ him.” He huffed. “Did you at least let Ratchet patch him up?”

“Can’t really let a mech when he’s already made up his mind behind your back.”

Hot Rod snorted. “Good to know _some_ mechs on this ship are still sensible.”

He didn’t wait for a response, storming off to the brig down a series of halls. He _knew_ Cyclonus had been tossed there, Ironhide had made sure of it himself.

He also knew Ironhide wasn’t a liar, but Hot Rod still thought about Cyclonus. He’d been struck on his side, a ped, and on the back of his helm. He leaked energon only from his side, but the knock to his helm _literally_ knocked him out, and it worried Hot Rod. It shouldn’t have, not when he knew Ratchet had taken care of Cyclonus, but the paranoia got to him anyway. He quickened his pace, if only to know that Cyclonus was okay.

Just as he turned the corner, he saw Ratchet leaving the brig, holding a case of what Hot Rod assumed were medical supplies. He lit up and waved.

“Hey Ratch!” He quickly jogged over to the medic, already feeling his mood brightening. “How is he?”

Ratchet grumbled, holding onto his case with one servo. “He’ll be fine. Ironhide didn’t inflict nearly as much damage as I had been expecting. He’s already healing nicely, too.”

Hot Rod was relieved, he could feel the stress leaving his frame. “Thank Primus. And he’s awake?”

“He should be waking up soon. Put him in a light stasis so I could patch him up uninterrupted.”

As Hot Rod collected himself, Ratchet couldn’t help looking him over. “…You’re _sure_ he didn’t hurt you? No matter what, I’m a medic and I’m here to help you too.”

Hot Rod groaned. Well, there went his mood. “Ironhide already said something similar. Let’s just drop this conversation, please? He didn’t hurt me. I’m fine. I want to see him.”

Ratchet eyed him, deciding that Hot Rod was telling the truth, and moving out of the doorframe’s way. “Go ahead. If you need anything, _call._ I’m serious.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Hot Rod shimmied past Ratchet, excited to talk to Cyclonus and checking up on him. And maybe getting him out of the brig.

The brig was darker than he remembered it being. He wondered if they’d just transferred the energy spent here to something more important. It’s not like they harbored many criminals.

He examined each cell he passed by, hoping he wouldn’t mistake the darkness for the mech he was looking for. It was unnerving, passing by so many bars and not seeing anybody. Just how far in did they lock him up?

Hot Rod groaned, opening up his comm and getting ready to send Ratchet a message, until he saw a flicker of red.

“Cyclonus?” He called out, trying to be quiet but not exactly being able to contain his excitement. Or maybe it was nervousness. He couldn’t care right now.

The mech in question groaned, shifting his weight in the darkness. “Where am I?”

Hot Rod walked to the cell, noting just how far it was from the exit, and looked through. He could barely make out Cyclonus’s outline on the recharge slab, shifting and moving around to test his range of motion.

“You’re in Ironhide’s ship,” Hot Rod responded, then paused. “Actually, you’re in the brig under Ironhide’s ship.”

Cyclonus snorted, and sat up. Hot Rod had been similarly injured before, and _knew_ that must’ve hurt.

“Who shot me?” Cyclonus asked, tenderly checking the weld Ratchet had made on his side. Hot Rod deflated, though he wasn’t sure if Cyclonus could see that.

“…Ironhide.”

Cyclonus huffed, and left his self alone. He found Hot Rod’s icy blue optics, and held their eye contact. “And you?”

“Me?” Hot Rod didn’t understand what he meant.

“Did they hurt you?”

Hot Rod jumped back. “What? They’re my _friends!_ Why would they hurt me?”

Cyclonus hummed thoughtfully. “You lot are at war. _I_ look like a Decepticon.”

Something clicked in Hot Rod’s processor and he understood what Cyclonus was implying.

“Okay, first of all, you’re _not_ a Decepticon, and they have to accept that whether they like it or not.” Hot Rod crossed his arms and huffed. “Second, I _know_ my friends just as well as they know me, and we’re all certain I would be one of the _least_ traitorous Autobots in the entire faction, so don’t question my loyalty.”

He leaned forward, almost touching the cell’s bars with his face. “And third, don’t question the trust my friends have put in me. That’s between us and none of your business.”

There was a moment of silence, then Cyclonus snorted.

“I only wanted to know if you were well.” He glanced back down at his weld. “And not in my same position.”

Hot Rod furrowed his eyebrows, but he felt a little silly. He felt justified for his outburst either way. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

Neither said a word afterwards. Cyclonus was silent in thought, or maybe he was waiting for Hot Rod to say something. Hot Rod, simply put, was overthinking their current situation. This wasn’t the thanks he wanted to give Cyclonus for saving him _twice_ now. He felt embarrassed for Ironhide’s actions, and he was angry that he was being put aside. It was uncomfortable, and unfair. He didn’t know how he was going to deal with it on the future.

A quiet rumble distracted Hot Rod from his thoughts, and he looked through the cells.

Cyclonus shifted. “My energon reserves are low.”

Hot Rod sighed. “I’ll be right back. I’ll go get you some.”


	8. Wandering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not much dialogue in this one 0”:

With a lot of convincing and arguing, and whining on Hot Rod’s part, the rest of the crew was convinced to allow Cyclonus to take a spare berthroom. 

As far as Cyclonus was aware, his room was just as empty as everyone else’s. He didn’t expect just how lonely it felt to be in one of the rooms though. It was unfurnished minus a side table, desk, and a recharge slab. The walls were a boring metal grey, and the window was his only escape to the rest of the universe. He couldn’t wait to go back to flying on his own ship, not having to worry about surviving whatever attacks were coming his way, and simply enjoying traveling. 

His mind wandered to the mechs he was allowed to meet. He’d heard a lot about Ratchet, remembering him as the Autobot’s miracle doctor. 

“Thank you for attending my injuries, doctor,” he had said, bowing out of respect and admiration. 

Ratchet had crossed his arms and huffed, looking away. “Just Ratchet is fine,” he’d said, scowling at the mech below him. “And stop bowing. You’ll disrupt the nanites and it’ll take longer to heal.”

So Cyclonus had followed his advice. Mostly. He still bowed to Hot Rod when he’d been told it was the younger mech’s arguments that allowed Cyclonus to roam free, though he didn’t bow as far. 

He hadn’t been given any major responsibilities since they’d mostly been drifting in space looking for Autobots that had been left behind. Hot Rod remained quiet whenever the topic came up. 

Most cycles, Cyclonus spent his time looking out of his window, watching the stars move away from them, and guessing which quadrant they’d be approaching. 

Eventually, Ironhide came around to apologize. 

“I’d assumed you were a ‘Con and, well, Hot Rod’s our responsibility so…  _ I assumed _ the worst. I apologize.” He at least had the decency to look like he regretted it. 

Cyclonus had huffed. “I appreciate it.”

And that was the end of the conversation. 

Hot Rod came to visit him often. Not like he hadn’t already been doing that when Cyclonus was still locked in the brig, but this was more pleasant. It helped him forget he’d been caught up in their war, even if it was a fairly small part of the war.

It was also nice to know someone from before the war. Cyclonus knew about Ratchet because of what he did in Dead End, and from all the miracles he’s already performed during the war. He knew Ironhide as the mech that shot him, and he didn’t exactly think that was a quality he wanted one of his  _ acquaintances _ to have.  

Cyclonus remembered Nyon, where he and Hot Rod had met, and couldn’t help the questions he wanted to ask. What happened after they met? How did Nyon go up in flames? Had Hot Rod been a part of that? Had he been injured? Who else survived besides Hot Rod? What was Megatron doing during that time? Or not doing, according to Hot Rod? What was Optimus doing?

How is Hot Rod coping?

The last question came to Cyclonus as a surprise. He hadn’t considered Hot Rod as anything more than just an unfortunate acquaintance. Or, at least, until recently. 

His mind wandered to Hot Rod. The mech was young, liked to keep things moving, and talked a lot. And he never got rid of that tacky flame decal on his chest. In fact, he seemed to have  _ refined _ it, and that annoyed Cyclonus. Nonetheless, it was a personal choice, and Cyclonus wouldn’t insult Hot Rod for what he liked.

He thought about how Hot Rod stuck up for him when he was in the brig, and he wondered why Hot Rod would do that in the first place. He didn’t owe anything to Cyclonus, nor was he trying to suck up to him. He did it without expecting anything in return, and it left Cyclonus flabbergasted. 

He decided not to think about it anymore. He checked his chronometer, which had been adjusted to the schedule the Autobots had, and realized most of the crew should be recharging. He was due for another refueling, so he figured he wouldn’t disturb anyone.

“It gets really quiet when we recharge,” he remembered Hot Rod saying. The younger mech had been sitting outside of Cyclonus’s cell with his back to the bars. “I hate getting a night shift. There’s never anything to do. It’s really boring when everyone wants to  _ only _ work.”

Cyclonus had snorted.“I assume you only recharge when you  _ don’t _ have night shifts?” He asked, and noticed Hot Rod flinch. It would’ve been subtle if the twitch in his spoiler hadn’t given it away.

“Yeah,” was his only response.

Cyclonus stepped out of his berthroom, letting the doors slide shut behind him. If he remembered correctly… the energon supply should be down the hall to his left. He remembered to keep his steps light, not really wanting to accidentally wake anyone should he step too loudly. That would be unfortunate. 

As he walked down the hall, he came across Hot Rod’s berthroom. He only recognized it because of the flame design on the doorframe.

Cyclonus rolled his optics, and started walking, only to stop when he heard a noise. The noise was small, and it sounded like it came from someone. 

It sounded like a whimper. 

It didn’t take long for Cyclonus to realize the noise was coming from Hot Rod’s room. His light was the only one on and it showed through the cracks of the door, though it was dim, like the younger mech didn’t want anyone to notice. 

The whimper came again, this time louder. It sounded… like he was  _ crying. _ Cyclonus furrowed his eyebrows.

Why was he crying? Was he hurt? Was he in pain? Had he taken something personally? Had it been something Cyclonus said? Did he cry like this often? What was wrong?

A million questions swarmed in Cyclonus’s head, but his frame remained frozen. He didn’t think Hot Rod would want his company. Not when he seemed to be so vulnerable. 

He heard that whimper again. He clenched his servos and continued down the hall. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introspective Cyc… 
> 
> Promise there’ll be more dialogue in the next one 0”: and more cycrod interactions too hehe


	9. Right Behind You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lied about the cycrod interactions DKDKDK I needed to write this out first before I wrote that
> 
> Short chapter, but it’s got important dialogue 0”:

Ratchet unsurprisingly found Hot Rod sitting by himself in his berthroom. The younger mech had his back turned to the door, sitting hunched over on his berth and hugging his pedes. The medic would’ve left him alone if he wasn’t painfully aware what Hot Rod was dealing with internally.

Ratchet walked toward the berth and sighed, placing his servos on his hips.

“Did he take your offer?” He asked. He took note of how Hot Rod’s spoiler twitched before sinking a little.

“Yeah,” was his only response.

“Hm.”

Hot Rod didn’t move, not consciously. His spoiler remained low, and he kept his gaze on nothing. It was annoying Ratchet.

“Why are you sulking?” The medic asked again, this time angrier than he’d meant. “You asked him in the first place. It was your idea.”

Hot Rod shrugged. “Yeah, but… I dunno. I guess I wasn’t expecting him to actually take the offer.”

Ratchet was confused. “Why’s that?”

“I… don’t know.” Hot Rod’s spoiler somehow dipped lower, and Ratchet understood exactly what Hot Rod didn’t want to admit.

“Were you hoping he’d stay?”

The younger mech buried his face into his arms, as if hoping he could escape from Ratchet’s never ending questions. “Kinda.”

“Hn.”

Hot Rod seemed to relax now that Ratchet had read the situation out loud. There was no point in hiding, as much as the younger mech wanted to.

“So,” Ratchet started, shifting his weight on his pedes and crossing his arms in front of his chassis. “What’s your plan?”

It took Hot Rod a second to process what Ratchet had asked. When it hit, he sat up straight and finally turned to look at the medic. He had an unreadable expression, filled with too many emotions for Ratchet to distinguish individually, but the flush of his cheeks helped him realize Hot Rod looked _caught._

“What makes you think I have a plan?” Hot Rod retorted, almost pouting. _There_ was the Hot Rod Ratchet was used to. He wasn’t sure if this was for the better in this particular situation.

Nevertheless, he rolled his optics. “You always have a plan, whether you admit it or not. I just wanna make sure you have a _decent_ plan that won’t end with you hurting yourself.”

Hot Rod whipped around again, hugging his pedes closer than before. His spoiler was higher this time, and Ratchet could read the embarrassment in the younger mech’s frame. “Psh. Whatever.”

Ratchet chose his next words carefully. As much as he liked teasing Hot Rod and his general naivety, he didn’t want to purposefully offend him either. He cleared his throat to signal the shift in tone.

“…Do you want to follow him?”

Hot Rod’s spoiler twitched again, and he didn’t answer. Ratchet sighed.

“He hasn’t left from our comm’s range, you know,” he said, hoping it would coax a reply out of Hot Rod.

And it did. Hot Rod sat up again, but this time he swung his pedes off the berth, letting them dangle as if readying himself to stand up. He looked at Ratchet with a hard look.

“Ratchet, why are you enabling me?” He asked, clenching his servos into fists.

Ratchet snorted dryly. “I don’t wanna have to deal with you whining and complaining once he’s _really_ gone.”

Hot Rod groaned, knowing he should’ve expected an answer like that. He looked away, and Ratchet let his gaze soften.

“And… I don’t want you to repeat my past mistakes.”

Hot Rod looked up, and seemed to look through Ratchet. “…Oh.” He knew.

“Go,” Ratchet said, nodding his helm towards the door. “I’ll sort things out here.”

Hot Rod’s optics nervously flicked back and forth from the door to Ratchet. He stood up, but remained ready to sit back down. “Are you _sure?”_

Ratchet furrowed his eyebrows and feigned annoyance. “Start running before I change my mind,” he grumbled, stepping out of the way to the door.

Hot Rod straightened his back, clenching and unclenching his servos. He started walking, eyeing the door before he paused in front of the medic. He looked at Ratchet, and smiled. Genuinely.

“…Thank you, Ratchet.”

Ratchet smirked. “‘Course, kid.”


	10. Pink Paint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter, BUT. it’s setting up some stuff :3c

Hot Rod was panicking. Everywhere he looked, there was spilled energon. Kibble and very important fuel lines littered the ground. The shooting around them wouldn’t stop.  _ Cyclonus wasn’t responding. _

“This is my fault. This is my fault. This is my fault.”

He grabbed Cyclonus from the arms, and couldn’t believe how much  _ heavier _ he was. Better to drag him to safety than to try and pick him up. That would be faster too. Speed was key.

“This is my fault. This is my fault. This is my fault.”

The shooting hadn’t stopped. There wasn’t  _ anyone _ on their side. Not this far into the galaxy. How could he have known this was Decepticon territory? How could he have known they already knew Cyclonus wasn’t one of them? How could he have known  _ Cyclonus wouldn’t respond?  _

“This is my fault. This is my fault. This is my fault.”

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. This wasn’t supposed to happen  _ at all. _ It wasn’t supposed to  _ be _ like this.

“This is my fault.”

* * *

 

Hot Rod passed out. He needed to rest, but keeping him alive was the priority. Sharing energon directly was never advised, but Hot Rod had leaked too much to sustain himself. 

Maybe this had been a mistake. Cyclonus wasn’t sure of his options anymore. At least the gunshots had quieted down. Though… now it was eerily quiet. He worried someone would be scouting too close to this abandoned town. 

He carefully watched Hot Rod’s energon levels, thinking of what he  _ could _ do. In whatever delirious state Hot Rod had found himself in, he’d managed to give Cyclonus a frequency code. In any other context, that would’ve been mildly funny. 

Cyclonus groaned, wondering if he should just send a comm to the frequency and hope for the best. He didn’t want to cause any commotion with the Autobots, and he certainly didn’t want to mingle with the Decepticons. His best bet would just be to figure out if he could trust whoever’s comm this belonged to.

He checked his own energon levels, unsurprised to see them dropping steadily. He wasn’t dangerously low, but it wouldn’t take long now for him to start feeling the affects. He’d better make this quick.

* * *

_ ::want anything?:: _

_ ::Just the essentials, please. Don’t waste my shanix.:: _

_ :: can i buy one thing?:: _

_ ::One.:: _

_ :::: _

_ ::You are insufferable.:: _

_ ::yea well, u havent kicked me off yet:: _

_ ::I should.:: _

_ ::aw cmon, dont say that. i’m good entertainment:: _

_ … _

_ ::cyc?:: _

_ … _

_ ::…cyclonus?:: _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! Pls tell me abt the parts that stood out to u, I wanna talk abt this pairing Forever :”D
> 
> Also, none of these are planned. I’m winging it as I write, so updates will be sporadic at best. Sorry about that 0”:


End file.
